


Each Other

by JadeLupine



Series: We Were Once Lovers [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confusion, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love, Neruda, Oral Sex, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLupine/pseuds/JadeLupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alana clutches his hand and she draws herself into Hannibal, they are both shaking and shuddering, and she is not pretending to be cold. She is afraid of the world ending, she is afraid of murder and cannibalism and cold-blooded Ripper killings. But, she thinks, with a stab to the vicinity of her chest, she is afraid, even more of losing her mentor, with his twinkling eyes and glimmering smile and how he would take his coffee in the morning. She is afraid of losing him, she does not want to stand in this dark hallway, and she needs light, light, dawnlight, morninglight, starlight, and sunlight.</p>
<p>“Be still,” he whispers to her, and he strokes her hair. “Be still, my love.”</p>
<p>
  <i> A chronicling of Alana's and Hannibal's relationship </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Each Other

**Author's Note:**

> H A N N I B L O O M   
> Well, obviously, if you don't like the ship you can just not read this, haha, okay, so if you do, or if you just want to read it, go ahead, I hope you like it. The poem sprinkled in between is Neruda's "The Dead Woman" btw!

Alana looks at him, and his face blows her into branches; she feels warped yet whole, loved yet lonely, burning and blooming. When she is kissing Hannibal, she feels like the one who is allowed to bend and break, the one who does not need to analyze. Every moment feels like two other moments, every kiss he places on her lips, the corner of her mouth, every caress casts different shadows, leaving different impacts, making her want to fold into him.

Hannibal carries her to the bedroom as she had waited a lifetime to be carried. Her fingers brush across the thick, knotted scars on his forearms and she feels like fixing him, fixing _them_. She shivers in delight as he lays her down on the bed, he is kneeling over, her and he is sliding her dress off her shoulders. The air is silk and honey, it feels as if it is parting to let them breathe and live and fuck, and Alana is laid bare on the bed, he is still kissing her jaw, a clumsy, un-Hannibal kiss as he shrugs himself out of his shirt, and she feels deft fingers unhooking her bra, she feels as if she is wending her way into oblivion and happiness.

When he is inside her, for a split second, she sees Hannibal Lecter, her mentor and professor from the old days, straight backed, fey eyed, and she arches into him, she feels his mouth on her breast, and she cradles his head. Alana feels as if she is watching them from above, Hannibal’s shapely, muscled back, moving rhythmically over her.  She feels a fire at her groin, a freezing, wild sort of exhilaration, and she is sobbing his name, as he closes his eyes, and his hips move faster, he is like a dancer in his grace.

Hannibal is beautiful, Alana thinks, when he reaches climax, he whispers her name, not once, but repeatedly, and he breathes fast, his eyes almost lilac in the darkness. He smells of rain and new leaves and perfume, and she trembles as he pulls out of her, his forehead coated in a sheen of sweat and his eyes bright and full of her, her, her. She can feel Hannibal still inside her, as he settles down beside her; she can feel what he left of himself inside her, and she can feel his steady breathing beside her, he is sleeping already – somewhere, buried inside her, a furious, wet spark of motherliness awakens as she strokes his hair, lulling herself into sleep.

_If suddenly you do not exist,_   
_if suddenly you are not living,_   
_I shall go on living._

**_X_ **

She wakens to find him beside her, his eyes slowly opening, and she wants to remain in this moment while the rest of the world whistles around her. He smiles, and they exchange simple conversation, she feels un-bent, un-broken, somehow, happiness is buried beneath shreds of fear and betrayal. There is a doorbell ringing, and he still caresses her face before he answers it, she can smell his perfume still on the sheets, mingled with their sweat and she can hear voices next room. Jack Crawford. Well, she thinks, this would provide a scandal for the BAU, for them to chew over their relationship like cats with caught sparrows.

She puts on his shirt and it feels faint, and at home on her skin.

Jack is accusing Hannibal.

“I can.”

She feels like the angel of defense.

**X**

 

He is angry, she can sense that, even if she hadn’t known him long enough to know how his back tensed, and his lips whitened. He stormed out of the room, she hears a door slam, and she is stunned, it was so unlike Hannibal to be so _rude_ , that she felt herself following, leaving Jack in her wake. He deserves this, she thinks, Jack Crawford with his suspicion and his tendency to listen to killers. She brushed past him without a word, and Jack frowns after her, wondering at her proclivity to falling in love with the most dangerous of men. She sees Hannibal sitting at his desk, still in his thin, red sweater, and he does not look up at her.

“You know,” she starts, walking toward him, still in his shirt and nothing else. “Jack can be an asshole sometimes.”

She touches the light stubble on his face, and she wants to take his hands, but they are curled into fists, and his eyes are dark. She does not say anything to him, she does not comfort him, and she does not kiss him. There, in the dim light of Hannibal’s living room, she sits on his desk, and he wants to kiss her. Hannibal wants to hiss her eyes, her long hands, her mouth. He watches Alana for a long, long time, but he does not kiss her. He wonders, maybe things would have been different if he had. He uncurls his fist, and takes her, by her milk-white hand.

“I must apologize to Jack.” He says, stroking her thigh. “I have been most rude.”

She laughs through her nose.

“You’re so predictable.” She laughs again, almost hysterically. “He accuses you of murder, and you want to say sorry for getting angry?”

Alana kisses him then. She slides down from the desk and onto his lap, and kis presses her lips against his until they stop becoming hard and cold, and are pliable, loving once again. Yes, Hannibal thinks, oh yes, this lithe, beautiful girl is stitching this disgusting world together, with her capable, fine-boned hands. In his head, he will always carry around the memory of this morning, when he kisses her, when their lips are warm and almost one entity, he will remember his Alana who held him till he was almost human again.

_I do not dare,_   
_I do not dare to write it,_   
_if you die._

**X**

 

Hannibal has known Alana since she was a small, messy-haired university student forcing half written essays into his hand and making up excuses, and he is still trying to make sense of her, she is harder to make sense once they have begun this sensual relationship, she seems novel and startling and exquisite.

Alana has known Hannibal since he was an intimidating university mentor, with his disapproving glances and the “Bs” that he neatly wrote on her essays. She remembers sometimes hoping that he would scrawl a “See Me!” on the essay, but they were not usually that bad. Now, she tries to make sense of him as he sits next to her at breakfast, and touches her hand when they make lunch. She sees him like turns of a kaleidoscope, she does not understand Hannibal _truly_ , but she is unsteady with his startling love.

She wants to make his breakfast for the rest of her life.

**X**

 

Alana wakes, and she is crying, there are tears on her face and in her voice, she is weeping for Will Graham and what he has become, and what he will be forced to become. He kisses her, very firmly and gently and insistently and tenderly, maybe even a little longingly, and he whispers that it wasn’t her fault, Alana, no, no, it would never be her fault, sleep, my love, mein liebe, mein schatz.

She takes notes in her head, about how his arms envelop her and how his shoulder consumes her, and she falls irrevocably in love with every note. 

**X**

 

He was lying about not having nightmares, she thinks, as she listens to the screaming.

 

_I shall go on living._

**X**

 

Hannibal loves that battered crimson jumper, Alana notices with a laugh. He wears it half of autumn and winter, his scarred wrists sometimes stick out of it. He sometimes runs a hand through his hair, when he is writing or composing, and sometimes laughing. Sometimes his voice goes very low and terrible (when they talk about the crucification, and Jack Crawford, mostly), and there is something behind his eyes, like the burning, screaming torch at the front of a legion. Hannibal tastes of longing, and he never kisses casually, he always holds Alana, as if he might be afraid of slipping her away into the night, he holds her very close, and his hands are always warm and a little rough.

She finds that she is in love with all the scattered bits of Hannibal, the idiosyncrasies and the way his hair quirks up in the mornings and how he tangles his hands in her hair when he kisses her, the way his voice sounds when he is reading her the news from his iPad, and the lovingly gruesome faces he makes when he pretends that he likes the way she had cut the tomatoes.

To think she’s known him for all these years, and never noticed all these things until now.

 

**X**

Hannibal opens Alana's legs and lowers his face into her, and she can feel his tongue running through her crevices, probing into the most secret parts of her. His teeth brush over her clitoris, and his hands push her legs apart even further, as he kisses her, actually kisses her below, and lets, again, his teeth graze over her. It is only after she arches her sweat-stained back in a cry of pleasure that he moves back up, almost lying on her, and he kisses her, she is forced to taste herself, and she adores the taste of him after he is done with her. Alana's hand moves down, she feels his hardness, and she thinks, in an emotion close to bliss----

i feel like i have waited my life for this but i have not

_Because where a man has no voice,_   
_there, my voice_

**X**

 

They read together at night, medical books, novels, or poetry. Sometimes, they even read by candlelight. He is the one who always lights the candles, of course, one by one, until they glimmer steadily in the night dark.

Hannibal smiles briefly, touches her hand, presses a kiss to her lips.

“This is better than switches and bulbs and electricity.” His hand remains on hers, as they read.

His eyes, Alana thinks, as she observes him, aren’t dangerous, or cold, not in candlelight.

It is only in the darkness 

**X**

 

The world will be grey in prison, Hannibal thinks, as Jack Crawford inches closer toward finding out the truth, with the help of Will. The world will be terribly grey, and he thinks of Alana’s bright hair and her lips and he tries to recreate her in his head, as practice, but finds that she is too brilliant, too vivid and wonderful for him to properly envision. All he sees is grey, black exploding, white, black. He would not see her in prison, and he would only long to light a candle, watch the light flicker over her hair, her mouth, her eyes. He sits alone in his office and tries hard to envision her body, how she looked with her hair messed and her eyes alight, and he can only see his own mind, not her, not her.

He shivers.

Cold, he thinks. It is just the cold.

It isn’t.

**X**

 

She is pointing a gun at him.

_Where blacks are beaten,_   
_I can not be dead._   
_When my brothers go to jail_   
_I shall go with them._

**X**

 

“Come with me, Alana.” Hannibal says, watching the paleness of her eyes, the shadows, the curve of her aristocratic neck.

“Kill me.” She begs, she is too righteous; she is too _perfect_ to run away with a killer. There is a vacancy roaring itself through her, she is staggered by her own voice, and she wants to kill the man she loves. The firelight flickers as he holds on to her hands, but she feels as if her head would never, ever clear, she feels truth crushing down on her like an iron curtain, everything is falling over in her mind.

And there is stillness and there is stillness----

And the stillness shall be---- 

**X**

 

She clutches his hand and she draws herself into Hannibal, they are both shaking and shuddering, and she is not pretending to be cold. She is afraid of the world ending, she is afraid of murder and cannibalism and cold-blooded Ripper killings. But, she thinks, with a stab to the vicinity of her chest, she is afraid, even more of losing her mentor, with his twinkling eyes and glimmering smile and how he would take his coffee in the morning. She is afraid of losing him, she does not want to stand in this dark hallway, and she needs light, light, dawnlight, morninglight, starlight, and sunlight.

“Be still,” he whispers to her, and he strokes her hair. “Be still, my love.”

She closes her eyes.

(Be still. Be still, my love.)

_When victory,_   
_not my victory,_   
_but the great victory_   
_arrives,_   
_even though I am mute I must speak:_   
_I shall see it come even though I am blind._

**X**

 

She is _not_ weak. Even as she stands with Hannibal, in an unknown airport, him sporting a slight beard and eyeglasses, her hair dyed light brown, her eyes red rimmed from the grief and haste of their departure. Alana Bloom is not weak. She listens to the wind, and the end of the wind, and she is not weak, she is not a reed or a lily, she is an orchid, she is a rose. She has fire in her eyes, and if she goes with Hannibal to the corner of the world, it was only because she _loves_ him fiercely and in an illuminated, exhilarating way, it was only because she is so deep inside him that she cannot imagine when he does not wake beside her, blinking sleepily, groaning at the morning.

That does _not_ make her weak.

It makes her strong enough to tear away the harsh, trembling fear of the man next to her. It makes her strong enough to run from the eyes of the F B and I. She has no doubts about him with regards to harming _her_ , she is smart enough, she knows how Hannibal shook against her, as she bent into his arms, more than two hours ago, and that was when she was certain that she would not leave alone. It makes her strong enough to let her hand graze Hannibal’s, and she hears funeral bells in her ears and mind. He pulls her close with alarming strength as though for fear that she will slip, vacantly into the vacant land of the _good_.

They wait for the sun, their plane, and their happiness. 

**X**

 

It is not darkness they go into, but light and freedom. Hannibal still kills, sometimes, and he eats them, and she watches. She touches him, and they are nomads, they move about from country to country, Italy, France, Austria. They settle in Switzerland, of course they did, and he tells her stories of the mountains, their strange, European names and the haunting tales behind them. They make love, and it is, to her, as if every time is as sweet as that first time after the party, how he looked over her, beautiful and vivid and she waits, and waits and waits for the happiness to end, but for once, it does not.

Today, they are standing on a mountain, Hannibal clad in a sweater and pants, herself in a dress, and they watch the sun touch the mountain, they watch it turn pink and orange. She touches Hannibal’s arm, and in their minds, they fumble with beginnings and endings, but they don’t speak, for there are no words for what they are.

Her face is wet.

Look, he says.

Look, Alana, my love.

The sun is shining.

_No, forgive me,_   
_if you are not living,_   
_ifd you, beloved, my love,_   
_if you_   
_have died._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bit love-heavy, but most of the things I write are very love-heavy, I suppose, since I can't write porn properly, teehee. Anyway, you can leave any and all prompts to my tumblr (mikkelsenning) and yeah, I just hope you enjoyed reading, I guess.  
> this is Hannibloom, and not many people enjoy it, so I would sincerely and honestly appreciate every single comment that you leave to this work, thank you tons in advance!


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